He stood directly in the flow of bodies. A constant stream of robed, faceless students walking past him without a glance. He couldn't hear their footsteps or murmured conversations. The only sound in the hall was of fabric sighing against fabric, the snap and flutter of it in the wind. He didn't feel them passing, even when their shoulders collided. He couldn't move. Like a sentient statue, he was locked in the hard shell of his skin. He didn't know why, but something in the back of his mind was screaming at him to 'move damnit!' He felt like time was running out and there was something he needed to do, but he couldn't remember for the life of him what it was!

Through the thicket of anonymous students, Harry could see them parting further down the corridor ahead of him. Suddenly, between the rush of students, he saw another solitary figure stood in place amongst the pandemonium. It was a boy. He was facing away from him, but from where he stood, Harry could just make out the back of his head and his shoulders. His hair was the color of fresh tilled earth and the hood of his robe was lined with rich emerald green. He couldn't connect the boy with a name, but just that distant glimpse of him had panic lurching up the back of his throat like bile.

Harry's hand weakly rose to reach out for him and his lips formed around a name he couldn't hear, but he knew deep in his gut that it was useless.

The boy's head turned to look over his shoulder, but Harry couldn't comprehend his features into something recognizable. And then he was falling. . .

Down. . .

Deeper into the dream. . .

This time he was in the Great Hall having lunch with his friends. As if he were locked into the linear path of a memory, Harry smiled and joked with his friends as he normally would, all the while a sea of dread and fear was brewing in his head. His gaze swept the hall and caught on a boy at the Slytherin table, sat alone and hunched over his plate. As if by fate, their eyes met.

Hate. So much hate and anger in those dark eyes.

Harry looked away first even though he desperately wanted to force his body up out of his seat and over to the boy.

The setting changed again.

Harry approached the owlery with his letters in hand, but slowed when he heard the furious sound of parchment tearing and shuddering hissed breath. A moment later, the boy stormed out of the archway and slammed into Harry's shoulder, nearly sending him tumbling back down the stairs. The boy didn't apologize when he saw who it was, his eyes dripping fire and molten anguish.

Within the owlery he found the floor littered with the torn shreds of a letter.

Like the confetti remains of the letter, scenes began to rain down around Harry in a dizzying shower. Tired sunken eyes. A lone figure at the edge of the black lake when everyone was meant to be in class. A boy crouched on the stairs, picking up the spilled contents of his bag between classes. Draco sitting next to the boy at dinner, only for the other to abandon his meal without a word and walk out of the hall alone.

And then Harry found himself in a hall and all of the dread he'd been feeling ramped up tenfold. He was growing ever more aware and in control of himself in his dream and every corner of his mind was begging him to turn around and run . He'd never felt fear like that before. But his legs refused to listen and kept dragging him forward. He rounded the corner and came upon a small crowd of students with their backs to him. They were deathly quiet and still as stone. Terror was melting his brain and the only coherent thought filtering out of the chaos was nonononononopleasenononoplease! As one, the crowd rotated around and more than a dozen sets of glassy wide eyes settled on Harry.

Lightning fast, hands whipped out to grab both of his wrists in a painful, steel grip. Like the gaping drooling maw of a ravenous eldritch terror, they slowly dragged him in. That's when they started to speak.

"Why didn't you help him?"

"You could have stopped him."

"You wanted this."

"If only you were smarter."

"Poor bastard."

"You ruin everything and everyone around you."

"You're pathetic."

"It should have been you."

An endless cacophony of vicious voices whispering and screaming as they pushed and pulled at him, scratching his skin, ripping his clothes, digging their fingers into his flesh. Pushing him deeper and deeper until he was choking on fabric and deafened by their words. Then the bodies before him began to step back and away, once more bringing the hallway into view. But the shadow that fell over him was a hundred degrees cooler than the air around him and it burned his skin like the touch of permafrost. He didn't want to look but he didn't have a choice.

The rope had been tied to a wrought iron chandelier. It was taut and creaked ever so faintly under the weight. He was still in his Slytherin uniform, gleaming black dress shoes level with his eyesight. His dark eyes were still open but all the hate and despair were robbed from them. Now they looked like flat black stones. His skin was gray and his head was cocked at a slightly odd angle from the position of the rope.

With bile rising in his gut, Harry managed to speak for the first time as he crumpled to the ground.

"Geoffrey!"

Harry tore and wrenched himself from the hands that trapped him with a cry. He threw himself forward into darkness causing him to trip over his own feet and smash his shoulder into the hard floor with a grunt. But he was already scrambling up and dashing for any available exit, his mind screeching with panic like it was on fire. He needed to escape. He had to get out now.

He burst through the door and was immediately caught by a pair of strong arms. Harry whimpered like a wounded creature, his throat contracting around his heaving breaths. He tried to pull himself out of the darkness' grasp but they held firm. His frantic fighting pulled them both to the ground and his feet scrambled uselessly against the rug.

" . . . -Harry!" He shriveled away from the voice, clamping both hands over his ears to block out those cruel poisonous words. The hands loosened their hold on him, but didn't let him go completely. He was waiting to feel them bore into his flesh and scratch down his arms and face. But they didn't. It took far too long in his disjointed mind to realize that the hands were petting his hair and sliding up and down his back in an almost soothing manner. After a while, he dared to crack his eyes open, only to see the shadowed, worried face of Remus next to him.

But even with the realization that he was out of his dream and safe with his dad, refused to register with the rest of his body. His hands stayed fixed tight over his ringing ears and his trembling limbs were clumsy, slow to respond, and buzzing with pins and needles. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it pulsing behind his eyes and high in his throat. Most terrifying of all, he felt like he was drowning. His lungs screamed for air but no matter how hard he sucked in a breath, it felt like it never made it past his throat. He couldn't breathe and his head was growing fuzzier with each passing moment.

And then Sirius was there.

"Harry. Harry, I need you to listen to me, okay? Can you try to match my breathing?" Swimming in his vision, the visage of Sirius worried and crouched before him drifted through the chaos of his mind like a steady vessel splitting waves. Sirius took deliberate exaggerated breaths. Harry tried to copy him but it took several tries of stuttering, choked gasps for him to begin to follow the rhythm. And with all of his focus on matching and maintaining the action, his mind naturally drifted away from the crushing weight of fear and guilt that had spurned his meltdown.

The couple stayed on the hallway floor until Harry had fully settled back into his bones and they could move him into their room with them. Curled up in the sleep-warm blankets and in the wane glow of a bedside lamp, they soothed him for the rest of the night and well into the morning hours.

Harry hated this feeling. The way his eyes felt strained and heavy in their sockets, stinging even in the muted daylight of the room. His gut was tight and nausea burned high in his chest and throat while the ache in his head seemed to pierce deeper with every passing minute. His body was punishing him for barely getting a couple hours of restless sleep, and then inevitably staying up the rest of the night due to his episode. All of the awful consequences of sleep deprivation were something that he was becoming more and more familiar with. But he shouldn't.

That's why he was here.

"I hear you're having trouble sleeping." Edith broached carefully, as if they didn't both know exactly why they were meeting two days earlier than their next scheduled appointment. Harry had wanted to wait until then to bring up what had happened, but Sirius had wanted to get Harry in to see his mind healer as soon as possible and had set up an impromptu meeting the very next morning. Harry couldn't tell if he'd been annoyed or touched by his almost overbearing concern.

"I've been managing." It wasn't a very convincing lie, but Edith didn't call him out on it and only prompted him to continue. He sighed, staring at his interlocked fingers in his lap instead of meeting Edith's scrutiny. "I know I should be maintaining a regular sleep schedule—especially at my age—but I just-" the words evaded him and anything he thought of just felt like an excuse.

As he continued to struggle, Harry reminded himself that this wasn't the first time he and the older witch had talked about something difficult or embarrassing. He knew from past sessions that no matter what he said or did, Edith wouldn't judge him or scold him over his thoughts and feelings. She had never once dismissed him or told him that he was acting childish or irrationally. In fact, she had strongly encouraged Harry to lean into the less logical emotions and thoughts that he'd usually shove aside. She taught him that anger, jealousy, and fear were just as important as joy, contentment, and excitement—so long as he let them wash over him, reacted to them responsibly for the given situation, and then let them fade away naturally.

That practice alone had gone far and wide in helping him to understand himself and made it so much easier to open up about his honest feelings without shame. So, in that moment, he tried to keep that all in mind and speak candidly with Edith.

"I find myself avoiding and putting off sleep when I can because . . . because I'm scared of what I'll see in my dreams." His stomach flipped at the confession, but the feeling dissolved almost as quickly as it had come.

"Am I right to assume that these dreams are about Geoffrey?" She asked plainly, though her tone was gentle as ever. Harry couldn't help but admire the way she seemed to have perfected a balance between caring and professionally unopinionated when it came to their sessions. She was unconditionally comforting, while also remaining totally neutral in her personal beliefs and morals.

"I don't dream about him as often as I used to, but it's been several months since it's happened. I'm exhausted. I want to move on." Frustration welled up in his chest, even while a small part of him felt immediately guilty for wishing to put it behind him when he still felt partially responsible for what had happened.

"Is that what happened last night? Was one of those dreams the catalyst for your panic attack?"

Harry grimaced at the memory of his meltdown in the middle of the night. He nodded subtly but he could feel his mind clamming up, not wanting to talk about the near mindless hysterics he'd been in over a dream that hadn't even been his worst one.

As if sensing his walls going up, Edith diverted their path a little bit to keep them going in the right direction without sending Harry right into emotional-overstimulation territory.

"We haven't talked much about the time before his unfortunate passing. Can you tell me a little about him and how you knew him?" They were still in the rapids in terms of difficult topics for Harry, but at least he didn't feel like he was headed straight over a cliff any time soon.

"Well, his name's Geoffrey Birch, and he was a fourth year Slytherin." Harry began with the basics. "I didn't even know him very well, and from what Draco has told me, he's always been a bit of a quiet kid in their house. He was an only child to a widower father. He's a pureblood, but from what I've heard they didn't have much money or any political or social ties. Geoffrey was also . . . he was also one of the victims of Umbridge's abuse that had his testimony published without his consent." Harry finished with a strain in his voice.

"I understand that, at the time, there was a lot of tension and misdirected blame between some of the victims and you, correct?" Edith asked with a soft, sympathetic lilt. They had talked extensively about Harry's part in what happened with those testimonies and how he wasn't to blame at all for what had happened.

"Yes, that's correct. Most of them didn't see me as anything other than another victim of what had happened. However, there were a few students who were getting a lot of pressure from their parents who worked in the Ministry to publicly redact their testimony, to say that it was all a lie to cause trouble or get attention or something to that effect. A lot of those students blamed and resented me, since I had been the one to take their testimonies. Geoffrey was one of those students. His father had a mid-level position working directly under Fudge, and had been immediately and discretely fired as soon as the evidence against Umbridge was leaked." That last bit of information, along with most of what he knew about Geoffrey, he only found out after.

"I see. It seemed he may have believed that by renouncing his involvement with the scandal, his father might have been able to get his job back. The stress of the situation must have caused a lot of acrimony to build up over time. Did he ever confront you about it?"

"No. When we returned after winter holiday, he avoided me more than anything. I almost wish he had confronted me, even if it was just to yell at me. At least then I would have had the chance to speak with him." Harry would probably always regret letting the boy keep his distance despite noticing his slowly devolving condition at Hogwarts. He hadn't wanted to force Geoffrey to talk to him when he clearly blamed Harry for what had happened, but maybe if he had. . .

"Nobody is truly omniscient, Harry. And it wasn't your job to recognize what he was thinking, and what more, to do something about it. The whole situation leading up to his death was handled atrociously. Councilors and mind healers should have been required for everyone involved with Umbridge, and readily available for the rest of the student body—I won't get into the fact that I believe Hogwarts should already have at least one licensed councilor on staff at all times anyways. Professors should have been keeping a vigilant eye over all of their students at such a time, especially those involved in the scandal, and his father shouldn't have pushed him into dropping his testimony." Harry could sense that the woman had a lot more to say about how things had gone down at Hogwarts over the past year—and probably many years before that—but she withheld for his sake.

"There are many different aspects and factors that could have contributed to what happened. Or perhaps it was none of those! We cannot assume to know why Geoffrey did what he did if he can no longer speak for himself. But I can say with absolute certainty, that you are not responsible for his actions. It was never the duty of a fifteen-year-old student to single-handedly save the school and everyone within it." Edith stated firmly, knowing that Harry had trouble with letting go of responsibilities that are out of his depth.

"Now, do you think you're up for telling me a little bit about what happened in your dream?" She asked with a small, encouraging smile.

Like with most dreams, the fabric of the memory had corroded away in the waking hours and he couldn't recall most of it, just moments and vague ideas. He told her what he did remember though and the general feelings of fear and helplessness that followed him into his waking panic. The only part of the dream that he remembered vividly, was the very end.

Edith looked at him with such understanding and genuine care that Harry found it hard to look away. There was a warm, grandmotherly aura that she exuded that he just sort of sank into during their time together.

"Although it differs a bit from what I know happened in reality, it seems quite close to how he was found. It must have been incredibly traumatizing to find him like that." Harry looked down at the material of his trousers as the memories flooded him. It had been just another normal rainy spring morning and he'd been heading to breakfast earlier than most so he could spend some time with Pomfrey in the infirmary before classes. The halls had been completely deserted when he'd rounded the corner and come upon Geoffrey.

Harry had been so shaken he'd gone nearly catatonic. He probably would have remained there until another student walked up if his otherworldly companion hadn't reached through the veil and gently turned him around so he was no longer staring at the boy's slack face or his purple, broken neck as he hung there. Then, as if completely on autopilot, Harry touched his wand to his prefect badge and summoned the professors. Harry even somehow managed to ward off both ends of the corridor before the bend to keep any other students from arriving and seeing what happened before the staff came.

After that, everything had been a blur of professors and aurors and endless questions. Harry found out much later that Geoffrey had left a final note in his robe pocket.

"I rather it be me that find him than another student." Harry replied eventually, not really thinking about the words before they left his mouth.

"Why, because you're better equipped to handle it?" She countered with a raise of her eyebrow.

Harry winced, knowing the point she was trying to make. Though, Harry did believe that his rather extensive experience with death and dying should have made him a bit better at dealing with the death of others. But it wasn't the same. It was messy and complicated and all of his fleeting memories of the boy were now stained with regret and he hated that. Geoffrey deserved more than that. He deserved better.

"We've talked about this in the past, Harry. The neglect and abuse you experienced as a child have caused you to grow up far faster than any child should and it's made it incredibly difficult for you to open up and rely on even those you trust. What I'm getting at is: you can't 'logic' your way out of dealing with your past and present traumas. We need to work through them at your own pace and resolve it over time. Have patience with yourself." She reminded him emphatically. It was something she had told him many times. Her way of coaxing him away from unhealthy and repressive coping mechanisms just because they're convenient.

"I know, I know. But what about the panic attack? I haven't had one before. Why now?" Harry leaned forward in his seat, that was the reason he was there a few days early after all. He needed to know if panic attacks would just be a part of his life now, or if there was a way to prevent them.

"I believe that was most likely caused by the prolonged sleep deprivation, external stressors, and an intense night terror that combined and all hit you at just the right time. I believe if we set up a plan to help you get proper rest, reduce your stress and manage your night terrors, the incident is a lot less likely to repeat itself since you don't have a history of anxiety." She made it all sound so simple, so manageable.

Harry sincerely hoped she was right about it most likely being a one-off thing.

". . .The valves between the atria and ventricles are called atrioventricular valves (also called cuspid valves), while those at the bases of the large vessels leaving the ventricles are called semilunar valves. . ."

Harry's eyes caressed the tight black text printed on the glossy page of the large muggle medical text book like he was reading poetry. To Harry, the more he learned about the human body and the practice of medicine, the more he realized that there was so much beauty to be found in the complex organic structures just below the surface. At the end of the school year, he'd begun his dive into researching everything he could about magical medicine. All in preparation for the exam he'd need to take at the Ministry at the end of summer in order to even qualify for the internship at St Mungos.

However, once his OWL exams were over and he could focus all of his attention solely on medicine, it had taken him a distressingly short amount of time to burn through all of the texts Pomfrey had given him in preparation for the exam. And once he'd gotten a taste of the knowledge, he felt insatiable. He had so many questions and theories running around his mind. His desire to be fully prepared for the exam flourished into a hunger for more information just for the sake of it. And so, Harry spent more money than he'd ever before on a slew of magical medical texts from all over Britain. And then he'd moved on to books and journals from around the world.

Now it was mid-August and Harry had converted an empty room at Grimmauld into his own personal study lined with book shelves that were nearly full of his acquired collection of tomes. Harry was also steadily making his way through muggle text books on medicine, anatomy, and diseases. Harry had always known since he was a child that muggle science had gone above and beyond what the magical community had achieved over the centuries, but he had never realized the depth and detail of their knowledge.

Without his eyes leaving the page, Harry reached a hand over to the side of his desk where his fingers grazed the rough but warm surface of a stone. As soon as his fingers closed around the pink crystal, he saw a dim glow in the periphery of his vision and felt the skin of his arm and hand that held the crystal tingle pleasantly. It was the stone he'd made a few weeks ago when Phil had visited. Harry had done extensive testing on it before he'd used it on himself of course—he wasn't as reckless with his life as he was before, even with his immortality.

The stone had worked even better than he'd hoped. It cleansed him and his magic of the curse he'd cast on himself without drawing too much of his magic out at a time. Though, there had been an unexpected function that had quickly made itself known. Not only did the stone rid him of the curse side-effects, it also seemed to 'cycle' the energy in his body. Along with a thin, steady stream of his magic, it drew out spent energy, renewed it, and sent it back to him in the form of a warm wave. What that meant was that by holding the stone in his hand, he could spend hours upon hours in a chair reading tiny print non-stop without his body growing stiff and achy, or straining his eyes, or exhausting his brain with the influx of learning he was doing.

He still had to eat and sleep of course, and it was good to take breaks and get up and move, but he could extend his usual study time from a few hours a day, to any spare moment he wasn't eating, sleeping, or spending time with friends and family. It felt like he was condensing months and months of study into just a week without any physical consequences or forgetting anything he learned. Harry of course made sure to document every detail of the process and thoroughly tested the stone's limits and durability.

As soon as he knew that it was safe to use constantly without any side effects, Harry had made another stone and sent it off to Phil with a 'thank you' note for all the trouble and stress he undoubtedly put the man through.

He also wanted to give one to Tom, knowing that the other was just as—if not more—busy as Harry, working at the Ministry and could certainly use a little help to make things easier. But when he thought about sending him a package like he did Phil, it just didn't sit well with him. They had never really stopped talking to each other. They wrote to each other once, maybe twice a week, but the letters and occasional gifts almost made Harry's longing for Tom worse. Someone who had become such a huge part of his life was suddenly absent aside from a few short letters and Harry felt a constant dull ache in his chest that never seemed to abate.

Harry looked up from his book for the first time in hours as his thoughts turned towards soft, dark blue eyes that reflected the deepest waters of the ocean, a smooth deep timbre that sent shivers down his back like rain, and perhaps what he missed most of all: a captivating presence that fully enveloped him whenever he was with him that swept him up into a world all their own. Harry's teeth sank into the plush flesh of his bottom lip as his need for Tom bloomed like an infernal flower of smoke and ember inside him. Harry closed his eyes and swallowed against his longing.

Before their mutual separation, Harry had ached for Tom like he was a missing limb, a part of himself that he felt wrong without. Now though . . . now Harry craved him. Now he wanted to wrap Tom in his coils, to sink his teeth into the pale meat of his throat and never release. Harry wanted to feel his heartbeat against him and know the strength of Tom's hands under his ribs.

Harry was familiar with the feelings he held for Tom; he was intimately attuned to the unwavering devotion that had long since taken root inside him. He knew how to love Tom. But this. . . this was new. His desire was a cunning beast with scales and claws, feathers and teeth. It was a powerful creature that plumed hot breath down his neck and licked at his pulse. It would certainly try to devour Tom, but only if he wanted it to.

Harry's eyes opened slowly and he released his bitten lip from his teeth.

In that moment, his mind cleared of the fog of desire that had descended on him and he knew without a shadow of a doubt. He was ready.

It's time.